L'Absinthe
by Boomerang Butterfly
Summary: She doesn't know what she was made for. Zeke/Sasha


Written because I have an uncanny affection for Zeke Stane and Sasha.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she hears the soft clink of glasses, the faint ring of polite laughter. She hates the parties, the never ending barrage of galas and functions that she's required to attend. If she had things her way she'd disappear and take off to explore whatever city her father has dragged her to.

She fully intends on it one day.

Tonight, maybe, if she can convince her step-mother that her father's in dire need of her wit and intelligence to seal a new deal, she can slip out. She's so used to mock-flattering her step-mother that's a sin she's so good at it. It has a little to do with how mock-flattering her real mother can be. And, as she takes a sip of the chilled champagne she's probably too young to be legally drinking, she gives her mother a silent thank you and wonders what the weather in Scotland is like right now.

'Should've gone on that summer vacation with Maman, after all', she thinks wryly.

It's hot and muggy in Prague. The windows to the ballroom are all open, and there's a slight, brief breeze flowing through them that plays with the curls piled a top her head and toys with the too short hem of her emerald dress. She hates how short it is, but it's Amelia's choice of dress for the evening and she couldn't say no this time. Her father had asked her not to.

If Jin Kutaragi knew the extent of his only daughter's patience with regards his wife, he'd buy her more than a damn BMW for her birthday.

He'd buy her an island.

As if on cue, her father's distinct, gravely laugh permeates the room and he's arm and arm with some suit with a too orange tan. The man obviously loves the smell of money or he wouldn't be that close to Jin. Or maybe he's drawn to him like most other people, women especially, are. And with good reason; Jin's nearly six feet tall and tall with dark slanted eyes and a grin like the lecher he was.

Maybe it helps that Amelia's a nutcase or she wouldn't be half as tolerating of his infidelities as she is. Mathilde certainly wasn't. And neither really, was Sasha, but she plays the doting daughter and she laughs along with her father because that's what she was bred to do.

Strangely, however, she doesn't know what she was made for.

It gets harder every year, however, because she knows he's intending to sell her off at one of these damn parties. With a sigh, and a bored smile she breezes through the crowd of pampered guests and sips more champagne, fully intent on finding something stronger and drinking herself into a stupor. Then she catches Jin talking rapidly and excitedly to the suit he was previously escorting and knows tonight is it.

She needs to find Amelia.

* * *

Slipping out of a bustling party with three hundred guests was easier than she thought it would be. Considering whom she was, or better yet, who she was the daughter of, she'd have guessed that someone would've stopped her before she hit the door. But she walked right through those double doors without a look back and no trouble and found herself roaming the dark streets of Prague at two a.m. The air below on the streets was muggier than where she'd been in the ballroom, and Sasha could feel her curls starting to wilt. She sighed and tugged the pins from her long black hair, tied the locks back with her scarf, and took her heels off.

By the time she got to Charles Bridge, she was bored out her mind.

Until she felt boring eyeballs staring at back. She turned around saw only darkness and the twinkling of the city's lights. "It's the champagne," she mutters, and scratches absently at her left calf with her right foot.

"'Cept champagne doesn't get you drunk."

She'd jump but she's not really that scared cause even if she couldn't see him behind her she could feel him. He's there, even if he won't step into the light. "Maybe," she replies, "but who are you to say that's all I've had?"

"I'm nobody," he says with a chuckle and she gets chills this time because it's the kind of laugh that sets your blood on fire and stops your heart at the same time.

"Just my worst nightmare," she retorts, though she's getting a little scared now, because this is probably a mugging and she'll make the news tomorrow, dead and beaten and raped on Charles Bridge in fucking Prague with a too short green dress on. Her mother would be so disappointed.

And then he shrugs and steps back and now he's under the street light and she can see exactly what he looks like. He's not handsome, she decides, if only because he's got this baby face that makes him look like he's 14. But he's cute, even if his eyes look like they've seen things they shouldn't have. And he's grinning like a cat that ate a canary and she's wondering if she's about to become the canary.

Part of her wants to.

"If you're bored, I know somewhere we can go," he offers, and she's suddenly reminded of those stupid movies where the bad guys say exact things like that. 'Strange things happen in the dark', she muses silently and shrugs nonchalantly. Because she's about to say yes to a total and complete stranger and she really doesn't know if she'll come back alive.

"Long as it's not some boring party, I'm in."

Turns out, he's rich. He's also a genius and a piece of work and certifiably crazy as shit. Which is totally okay with her. He's enthralled by her American accent and her ability to speak five languages fluently without any problem and she's intrigued when he pulls out a gun that looks like it came from a sci-fi movie. They're walking still, over the bridge and into a part of the city she's never been in. His hotel is down the street and she wonders vaguely if the room has pay per view or not. It never occurs to her to ask his name.

"If we were in Germany," he starts, then turns his head and grins at her. "If we were in Germany," she repeats, tugs the skirt of her dress down a bit with the hand not holding on to her heels. "If we were in Germany we'd go to the clubs. Just sit there. Wouldn't dance or do drugs or drink or anything, just sit there." "And soak in the filth, I'm supposing."

He nods. "Of course, shooting up the place is an entirely new approach to typical club hopping, but that works as well."

She doesn't realize she's stopped short in the middle of the street until he turns and waves at her to catch up.

* * *

The room is dark and dingy and there's a little TV sitting demurely in the corner by the radiator. The bed squeaks and croaks when he plops down on it and she's almost afraid to take his hand when he holds it out be she does anyway. He pulls her down onto the bed beside him and she's staring at a cracked ceiling for a few seconds until his face comes into view.

She takes that back; he's not cute, he's damn cute. And she smiles.

"What do you wanna do?" he asks, in the most endearing way and she finds she likes how his eyes crinkle when he smiles like that. She's also wondering why the smile doesn't creep her out quite the way it should.

"I don't know. Talk. It's been ages since I've had a real conversation with a real human being."

He studies her for a moment then shifts and rests comfortably beside her on the bed. She's only slightly aware that her dress's him has ridden up to the edge of her underwear.

"Then we'll talk," he says with a slight nod and as he kicks his shoes off she notices he's not wearing socks. "And after that we'll go raise some hell."

She discovers more about him, including, but not limited to: he's more than batshit crazy, he's fuckin' psycho. It turns her on more than she'd like to admit. He's ridiculously funny, even when he's not trying to be. He's only 19, and he's made more money than her father has in 49 years. He doesn't do a lot of driving; he walks or uses the bus or takes a limo. He's in Prague for a business meeting, something to do with munitions and weapons and bombs and things she's not entirely familiar with.

His name's Ezekiel, and that's what people call him if they know him and Mr. Stane if they don't, but she has the rare privilege of calling him Zeke.

He gets to find out that she's the not very spoiled daughter of an investment banker from New York. Her mother's a filmmaker on location in Scotland and her father's somewhere on the other side of the city making more money. Her step-mother is an imbecile. She has one older brother named Courtney who's running her father's business back home in the states, and she loathes him. She's half French and half Japanese and she's never met any of her grandparents. She likes Belgian waffles with powered sugar and strawberry ice cream on top.

Her name's Sasha, plain and simple, but nobody calls her anything because nobody really talks to her. She's just…there.

And somewhere along the way, when she's explaining what kind of film her mother's making right now, she feels his hand creep up the expanse of her thin pale thighs and drift higher.

She's having a hard time coming to grips with reality right now.

* * *

At four a.m. she's stark naked on top of Zeke Stane and he's running his fingertips up and down her spine. "What are you doing?" she asks for the tenth time, and he only nibbles at the skin above her collarbone before grinning like the maniac his is and answering, "What we came her to do."

She gives up caring and lets him flip her on her back, doesn't object his fingers from skimming down between the valley of her breasts to her flat stomach and dip through the thick curls at the apex of her thighs. Instead, she welcomes it and sighs and stretches out, gasps as he slowly stretches _her_ out, and whimpers when he starts grinding his palm against her clit.

She doesn't tell him she's never done this before, or that she's only kissed two boys ever, or that she has no idea what she's supposed to do during sex outside of those movies they show late at night in Paris. Sasha merely goes along for the ride and lets him take her, even if his kisses are a little punishing and he's going to leave major hickies.

It's not until he's stretched out above her, cradled between her long lanky legs, does the matter come up.

"If it hurts I'm not gonna stop."

At least he's honest.

And God it does hurt, but she only whimpers, squeezes her eyes shut even as the few tears leak out and down her cheeks. He slows and she's not sure if it's for his own satisfaction or for her concern, but when he starts to move…

She wonders oddly if she's bleeding like they say virgins do.

Of course, what people say isn't necessarily true, because she's also been warned that she won't come the first time, and apparently that's a lie. She doesn't know exactly how her breathing became so erratic or who exactly is making those moans but she knows that something is about to explode and…

He holds her, almost tenderly, then bends her legs back and drapes her ankles over his shoulders.

"For the long haul," he breathes out.

* * *

"What are you going to do when you leave Prague?"

"Make more destruction."

"You'll need help with that."

"You'll need a PDA."

* * *

She stands in the streaming sunlight with her dress back on as the sirens whistle through the otherwise quiet street and selfishly, she thinks they're for her. She's already all over the news. It's dawn in Prague and she thinks this is probably where she'll go on her honeymoon.

"Ever had absinthe?"

She shakes her head because she's only ever had champagne.

"It'll kill you if you drink too much. Make you crazy. I think my mother drank it when she was pregnant with me."

Sasha shrugs because she doesn't know if that's true or not. "Maybe my mother drank too much absinthe, Sasha." He tries again, and she thinks it's because she's preoccupied with something other than him.

He hands her shoes, the expensive green silk rubbing across her skin, and places two fingers to her temple, fists his hand into a gun. "We'll get drunk on absinthe and eat tapioca pudding and raise hell." He pulls the trigger.

She smiles then, and rubs her sleep deprived eyes.

Raising hell is what she was made for.

* * *

Yep...that was a strange one. Tell me what you think. ;)


End file.
